Before the Quell
by Snofums
Summary: A slightly OOC telling of how Katniss and Peeta spent their time together before the Quarter Quell. What happened when Katniss pulled Peeta in to her room that night? Rated M for language and eventual explicit sexual content.
1. Our Last Few Days

_"And if I really could save Peeta … in terms of a revolution, this would be ideal. Because I will be more valuable dead … Peeta would be more valuable alive, and tragic, because he will be able to turn his pain into words that will transform people ... _

_So what should we do with our last few days?"_

If I'm honest with myself, really brutally honest, I did it for me. Because his embrace offers something beyond comfort and security. There is something tantalizing there, something I've never experienced but desperately want more of. Something I can't name … a foreign kind of _hunger_, which gnaws at me ever more steadily as I stay in his presence.

_It's him_.

And so, when he walks me to my room after dinner on the day of our private sessions, my hand stills in his. I squeeze his fingers tighter without thought, and he mirrors my action, grinning at me. And when my eyes lock on his, when the shock of blue seems to make something constrict in my chest, I know. I know what I want – no, what I _have_ to do before I die.

But I can't. It would be the most terrible, selfish thing to do. I can barely let myself think of what life will be like for Peeta after these games. It's still awkward to think of someone like him, someone so good, loving me so completely. The only thing I do know is that I don't deserve it, and that I can't change it. He's said it in so many ways, never pressuring me to return it, never fawning over me, simply … factual. Peeta loves me.

_I need you to make love to me._

The thought flashes across my mind instantaneously, irrevocably. Like his love, the idea is irrefutable and present., and has been there, hidden, for who knows how long.

_I need you to make love to me._

He looks at me slightly quizzically, and I know he has seen something in my eyes. All I can do is hope that it's too dark for him to see me blush, to possibly guess what I am thinking. If anyone can, it's Peeta.

_Or Gale …_

The thought of Gale knowing my feelings is like a thunderclap, loud and intrusive, shattering the moment. I drop my gaze from Peeta's and study my shoes.

_What moment? Between you and yourself? _

Which is perfectly true. Even if Peeta guessed what I was thinking, if he knew what I had been about to ask him to do …

_He would say no._

My heart sinks at the realization that Peeta, good hearted, upstanding, sweet Peeta, would say no. Not because he wouldn't want to, but because of me. He'll think he's taking advantage of me, using me before we face our deaths. Or, I suppose, he could be thinking of himself. How he couldn't bear to be with me in that way, and possibly watch me die. Perhaps it would be better if we saw nothing of each other until the games. Wouldn't that be better for Peeta, in the long run? He wouldn't lose a girl who loved him back … he would lose a girl who was indifferent to him. Who pretended to love him to save her own life, but who, in reality, cared nothing for him. Wouldn't it be easier for him to let me die then?

_No._

Peeta will love me no matter what. I've pushed him away before, ignored him, like after the cameras finally left. It will be horrible for him no matter what.

I cringe at my own narcissism, but remember, finally, my pledge to keep him alive this time around. This, at least, makes me a bit more worthy. Maybe not deserving of his love, but surely deserving of his … of his …

Just the thought makes me flush, makes me feel heat in my stomach like never before and … a wetness, I realize, below. The things I would let him do to me, if he wanted …

_Anything. I would let him see, touch … do … anything he wants. _

But of course, for Peeta, it wouldn't be like that. It wouldn't be just raw fucking. For Peeta, it would be an act of love. I force myself to meet his eyes, though their warmth does nothing but increase whatever fire began burning in me with the realization that I wanted him.

And suddenly I can't stand it anymore. I have to ask him. But I don't know how. How do you ask someone to … to do _that _to you? Is there etiquette for that? And so I say the only words I seem capable of forming, hoping my true intentions are clear beneath them.

"So what should we do with our last few days?"


	2. Would You Tonight?

_"I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you." _

My breath catches in my throat. He has said exactly what I wanted to hear. Well, no, technically, he could have told me he wanted to make love to me until neither of us could move … but perhaps this was Peeta's way of saying that? Or maybe I was just hoping.

Regardless, the fire inside met was doing nothing but growing. I needed to feel him against me or I would burst.

I clasp his fingers tighter and pull him into my room. When he shuts the door, I reach past him and lock it. I see his eyebrows rise in confusion and – dare I think it? – hope? The look is instantly masked, and I can tell Peeta doesn't want to let his thoughts drift in that direction. Won't even allow himself to hope. The thought breaks my heart. So I explain.

"I just don't want anyone … interrupting us," I finish lamely. And this time I am sure he sees my blush. I wouldn't be surprised if he could feel the heat radiating from me, or at the very least hear my thundering heart. I have to close my eyes for a moment, willing myself to stay in control. It's a battle I lose.

I feel his breath catch when I move in to him, arms circling his waist, cheek resting against his strong chest. There is a pause – less than a second but a year long – where he is frozen. And then he lowers his cheek to the top of my head, resting there, his arms wrapping around me securely, solidly. Protectively. Because in this moment, I am safe. I am his. And before tonight – hell, before an hour ago – this would have been enough for me. I would have been content to be safe in Peeta's arms all night. But not any longer. I need more.

"You once said," I begin, frowning at the memory, at the fear that it will bring Gale back up between us. "You once said you would stay with me. Always."

"I meant it" His voice is gruff and hoarse, not his usual sweet timbre.

_Do it._

I raise my head to look at him, pulling back a bit. His arms drop to my lower back, but stay closed around me. I feel how tense his muscles are around me and I realize he is shaking and trying to control it.

_Do it._

I force myself to look into his eyes, grey into blue.

"Would you tonight?"


	3. A Misunderstanding

He pauses, then smiles one of the most genuine smiles I've ever seen. "Ok. Let me just go get my pajamas." It's clear he thinks I mean for him to stay in the same room, the same bed, but nothing more. He starts to turn back towards the door, but I tighten my grip on his fingers. His eyebrows go up in. I take a deep breath.

_You have to be clearer, Katniss_.

Yes. Don't leave room for doubt. I owe him that much, at least.

And so, terrified and shaking and more alive than I have ever felt, I tilt my head up, stand on my toes, and kiss him.

It's soft, at first. The merest hint of a kiss, a whisper of lips on his. This is far from my first kiss with Peeta, but it's the first one that's just _ours_, and not all of Panem's. Whatever I may have felt during those kisses, I could never truly let Peeta in because I would be letting the whole world in. I would be letting the Capitol in, performing just as they wanted me to. As Snow wanted me to.

But this is different. No one is watching me now, and I'm not sure I could stop if they were. I need him too badly.

And so I kiss him a little harder, and the fire inside me builds suddenly as I feel him kiss me back. His lips capture mine between them, firm, insistent …

_…hungry._

I am pulling Peeta in to me now, arms hooked under his, palms flat against his back. He can never be close enough, I feel. He tightens his embrace as his kisses become more urgent, and when I feel his tongue brush my lip hesitatingly, I eagerly open my mouth for more, trying to tell him in any way I can.

_This is ok. This is what I want._

My hands move up his chest, reveling in the feel of his muscles. I must have touched him hundreds of times, but never this way, never with this intention. It is like I am touching him, really feeling him, for the first time. They move up until they are gripping the sides of his face, pulling him even harder onto my lips. With my hands slightly raised, my chest pushes into him. He groans into my lips, and I am sure he didn't mean to let it escape. I can sense, even now, his hesitation. Not because he doesn't want me, but because he's afraid that I'll pull back. Change my mind. Hide. As I have been for years now.

_No more hiding._

With a sudden and surprising urge, I reach down and lift my shirt over my head. I lean forward to kiss him again, thinking that finally, I've made my message clear, but his lips aren't there to meet mine. He's taken his hands off me, too, and stepped away from me. He's looking down, around, up, anywhere but at me.

"Katniss …"

"Peeta," I answer him, forcing myself to look right at him, forcing myself to show this side, this part of me that I've never shown anyone.

When his eyes finally meet mine I lose my breath a little. They aren't his usual blue. They're clouded, dark with lust and want. He has started breathing more heavily now, through his mouth, his muscular chest rising and falling as he works to steady himself. But he looks away again.

"I can't - you have no idea how long … how long I've …. dreamed of this. How long I've wanted this, but – but … I mean, I don't know what you're … expecting."

His rejection is more painful that I could have imagined. I am folding in on myself, desperate to cover what I've so stupidly exposed. I can't bear to look at Peeta, can't stand to be in his presence for another second. The embarrassment, the shame of it, is crushing and deafening. It's all I can hear and all I can feel.

"God," I whisper, covering my chest desperately as my eyes sweep frantically for my shirt. "Shit."

"Katniss?" I ignore Peeta's confused question, grabbing my shirt. I don't even bother to pull it over my head. I just press it to my chest, desperate to cover myself and get the hell out of here.

"Wait … Katniss – what are you doing?" Peeta moves towards me and I back away.

"I'm sorry, ok?" I'm embarrassed, and my voice rings with hurt and anger. I see confusion in his eyes, but then I studiously avoid looking into them. I'm not revealing anything of myself, anymore. Then, to my horror, against my will, I feel tears sting my eyes. I turn around quickly, though I know he's seen them. His hands brush my arms, but I jerk away and then round on him, angrily. "Don't touch me if you don't want me!" I brush past him, heading towards the door. I undo the lock and open it, trying to get it wide enough to make my way out. The fact that this is, in fact, my room, doesn't even occur to me.

He's too fast.

His hand slams the door shut so forcefully that I'm startled. It's not like Peeta to be anything but gentle around me. I turn to look into his face, and am cowed by his anger. "What the hell is going on! What on earth would make you think that I don't want you? Katniss …" he runs an aggravated hand through his hair. His voice cracks. "I've wanted you practically all my life!"

"But you don't!" I yell. "You didn't," I say more softly. "You made it clear that – that whatever I was expecting …wasn't what you wanted." My train of thought is interrupted by the sound of Peeta laughing. It's so unexpected that I'm caught off guard as he pulls me into a hug, one hand pressing into the back of my head. Relief seems to surge from his body into mine.

"That's not what I meant," he says, and I can hear his smile in his voice as he strokes my hair. "I just meant …" he pauses and briefly meets my eyes before dropping his gaze. "I haven't ever … been with anyone." His blush intensifies. "Like this. In this way." He smiles sheepishly and looks to see my stunned reaction. And though I'm embarrassed, it's a different embarrassment than what I felt before.

I grin stupidly, happily, before I can help it. "Oh."

His lips press gently into mine. "Of course I want you, Katniss. But …" his smile falters a bit. "I know you've done this before, and – in case you were wondering why I wasn't. Better, I mean. I just … wanted to tell you."

Now it's my smile that falters. "What?"

Something I've rarely seen on his face flickers across his expression. It calls to my memory, making me wonder.

_I've seen that expression before. But where?_

Nothing good, that's for sure. Something … upsetting. Well, Peeta and I have gone through a lot of upsetting things.

_Why is this different?_

Then it hits me – I've seen it in my house, when he thought I was too angry, too incoherent to see it. The day that Gale got whipped, and I was screaming at my mother to give him stronger pain medicine … Peeta and Haymitch were the ones to drag me away. And there, in my room, after I had cried, but before my mother came in to treat my eye …

This was the expression on Peeta's face. I was too far gone to recognize – to care, even – what it meant. Not quite anger, or resentment. Something more … primal. And then I realize.

Jealousy.

_He thinks I've slept with Gale._

The thought hits me so suddenly, and is so abhorrent to me, that I physically feel sick. Anger rises immediately and irrationally to my defense. I push him away from me.

"How … how _dare _you!" I spit. I am furious with him. Furious for thinking _that_, furious for bringing up Gale, furious for ruining this moment, this night that I had hoped would go … so differently. I tug my shirt on over my head angrily, and head for the door. This time, Peeta is too stunned, it seems, to beat me to it.

I yank it open. "Get the fuck out of my room, Peeta."

"But –"

_"Just … get the FUCK. OUT," _I hiss.

The sound of the door slamming behind him rings in my ears.


	4. Make This Right

Hours later, I sit on the floor leaning against my bed, shame washing over me as I realize what I have done.

Of _course_ Peeta would think that I've … done that … with Gale. He knows about our trips into the woods. And as ridiculous as it may seem to me that we would spend any of that time doing anything but hunting … well, who knows what people say about us. What rumors fly about town. And Peeta knows how Gale feels about me. Knows how I feel about Gale.

_But no_.

No, he doesn't know. He thinks he does, but he's wrong. And instead of taking time to explain to him, to tell him that nothing like that ever happened – or ever w_ould _happen - I basically confirmed his suspicions and threw him out of my room. I groan and mash my palms into my eyes.

I am a piece of shit. Lord knows why he loves me. Why he wants me.

_But he does want you_.

It's a thought that keeps surfacing, keeps replaying itself in my mind. After I threw him out, and my wounded pride began to recover somewhat and my embarrassment had lessened, that was the thought that kept coming back to me. He wasn't rejecting. He wanted me. Wants me.

_Make this right._

I jump up and fling my door open, not caring what time it is. I have to talk to him. I _have_ to set the record straight. If nothing else, I have to apologize. Make things right again.

My nerve starts to fail me as I approach his door, but when I remember that I've already wasted a few of our precious hours, I find my courage again and knock, gently.

No answer.

I knock a little harder, a little more insistently. When there is no answer again, I full on pound on the door, not caring who hears me. And honestly, I don't care if I am bothering people here, in this pen they keep me before my death. Before _our_ deaths. I pound harder. "Peeta!" His name rings into the empty silence of the apartment. Finally, I try the knob. For some reason, I expected his room to be locked, but it's not. It's empty.

_Could he have left?_

No, they won't let us out. We're prisoners in this fancy cage. So that means he's here, somewhere.

It takes me a few minutes to find him, and when I do, my stomach contracts into a knot. He's sitting where he was the night before our first Games, looking out the window at the streets below. This time there aren't any celebrations, no people dancing in the streets. The Capitol people aren't very happy about these games.

He's asleep, his head dropped back against the wall, his arms loose by his sides where they were once circled around his legs, when he was awake. His prosthetic peeks out where one of his pant legs has ridden up slightly. I can picture him sitting here, watching the world outside, watching the skies change as the hours pass. And without waiting another second, without questioning whether it's the right thing to do or not, I drop to my knees next to him and press my lips to his.

He starts as he wakes up. His eyes register surprise and then hurt, but I am relieved and thrilled when, instead of giving in to either of them, he leans forward, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me back. Peeta is a better person than I am. Haymitch is proven more and more right with every interaction Peeta and I share. I really could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him. But I can try.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, pressing my forehead into his. I look into his eyes. "I'm sorry I reacted like that. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry," I say again, and punctuate my apology with a kiss. "I'm sorry," I say again, and this time place a kiss on his jaw. "I'm sorry." A kiss on his neck, where I can feel his pulse quicken against my lip. I feel him stiffen, and bring my kiss up to his mouth. Instead of apologizing, though, I whisper "please come back. Please come back to my room." He swallows, and nods, staggering to his feet, his limbs stiff from sleeping sitting up, but looking unmistakably happy.


	5. This is Real

The minute we're inside my room again and the door is locked I turn to face him.

"I've never been with anybody either."

He makes a face as he rubs his hand along the back of his neck.

"Katniss … you don't have to lie to me –"

"I have never been with anybody either," I repeat more strongly. "Ever." I walk up to him and place my hands on the side of his face. "_Anybody."_ I take a deep breath, and force myself to continue. "I don't know … what you thought. Or heard, I suppose. But Gale and I –" He winces at the name and pulls his head out of my grasp. "Gale and I are friends. Just friends. Nothing more."

The look on his face is heartbreaking. He wants, so badly, to believe what I am saying. "Peeta," I whisper, moving in close to him, speaking in what I hope is a seductive voice. "I have never shown anyone what I am showing … what I _want_ … to show you. I've never been with anyone the way I want to be with you."

My breathing is hard and ragged, and my heart is pounding, and for what seems like years, he stands there, looking at me. Finally, he pulls me into his chest and envelops me in his arms. "Katniss," he breathes. "I just … I can't believe this is real." I close my eyes and lose myself in the warmth of his embrace.

_Peeta. Sweet, gentle Peeta. Who loves me._

And suddenly the thought that these arms, this chest, his warmth, all of him, will be taken away from me, will be damaged somehow, punctures me. Like cold air sweeping in from an open window, my whole being seizes up in fear. I am paralyzed, fully and truly realizing, perhaps, that this moment, these last few nights, will be the only ones we will ever have together.

"I love you."

The words are out of my mouth so suddenly, so unexpectedly, so easily, that for a moment I don't realize I am the one who said them. Surely that came from Peeta. And the reason he has stiffened so suddenly is because I haven't said it back yet, of course. It's not until I see his expression, until he puts his hands on the sides of my face and forces my eyes to meet mine, knowing that he will read the truth in them, tonight, that I realize the words were mine.

And I say it again, the inevitability of my own feelings, the cold and inescapable fact that it's fucking _true_, leaving me no choice. I meet his eyes.

"I love you, Peeta."

There's a pause while he takes it in.

And then he's kissing me like he never has before. Not in the cave, not in front of the cameras … this is something else. There is desperation and desire to it, for sure, but there is also an inescapable sense of joy. The fire that had diminished to a simmer during these past few hours returns in full force, accompanied by something else. Something new.

An ache. In my chest. My heart, I realize, is literally aching for him. When I kiss him back now, it's to feed both needs, and I can't get enough. My hands roam everywhere, through his hair, over his back, on his stomach, and before I know it I am lifting the hem of his shirt and tugging it over his head, with mine following closely after.

His lips immediately find mine again and he devours me, his hands in my hair and on my lower back. The feeling of his skin on mine is intoxicating.

And then … his lips move. He doesn't kiss my mouth, he moves down slightly and kisses the spot where my pulse beats in my neck. Harder and harder he presses his lips to my skin, and when he runs his hands along my collar bones and down my arms, I make a noise I have never made before. It's a noise only he could bring out of me.

_More_.

He steps back and looks at me hungrily, his mouth open, his breath heavy and uneven. The cool air on my breasts has made my nipples hard. Agonizingly slowly, with one hand on my hip, he slowly moves the other up my stomach and squeezes me gently. When he runs his thumb along my nipple I actually drop my head back and groan.

I snap it back up almost immediately when I feel him begin to slide my bra straps off my shoulders. His touch is light and teasing, almost, but deliberate in its purpose. It sends shivers through me, and my skin becomes coated in goose bumps, as he reaches around to unhook me. I lean in to kiss him, but he gently pushes me back. He wants to see me.

I force myself to keep my eyes open as I move slightly away from him, to watch him as his gaze drinks me in. But before long, shyness overwhelms me and I shut my eyes, unable to watch Peeta watching me any longer. It's like looking into a very bright light.

It's a surprise, then, when I feel him use his mouth on me, and my eyes open in shock. I run my hands through his hair, pressing him closer in to my chest, as his mouth presses wet kisses on me. When he makes it back to my lips again, something between a groan and a growl escapes.

_I need more_.

Still kissing him, I push him backwards in the direction of the bed. When he is seated in front of me, I step back and slowly push down my pants, step out of them, and make myself to stand in front of him in nothing but underwear. This time, my eyes stay open.

_This so isn't me._

I have never let anyone see me like this. I can't imagine doing it with anyone else. But with Peeta, it's different. I _want _to do this. I still feel shy, and embarrassed when the chill hardens my nipples even more, but I make myself stand in front of him so he can see me. The way his eyes rove over my body makes me flush, but the look on his face means it's worth it. It's an almost reverent expression; worshipful.

He stands and pulls me into him again, his hands sliding around my back and then slowly moving lower, until he teasingly runs a finger along the curve of my cheek. I jump, then laugh. Smiling, he brings both hands up and cups my face, turning me around. Slowly – achingly, deliberately slowly – he lowers me onto the bed. I feel his hand behind my head; the other one comes up to stroke my face. He looks into my eyes with such love and adoration that the ache in my chest transforms. It becomes warmth, different from any sort of warmth I have felt before. It is soothing and engulfing all at once, and I am filled with so much happiness I feel I could shout my love for Peeta from the rooftops.

Everything I feel, the warmth, the expansiveness of love within me, sharpens immediately to a single point as Peeta places his hand on my stomach. I inhale and close my eyes, arching to meet his touch, waiting for him to move his hand lower. I am disappointed, but only slightly, when he doesn't. He brings his hand up to squeeze my breast, and then roams everywhere over my body.

He leans back and watches his hand as it travels and explores the dips and crests of my body. It occurs to me that Peeta has probably imagined a night like this before. Dreamt of how I might feel as I move underneath him, whispering his name into the darkness. Briefly, I wonder if I compare to the me in his head, but his expression as he caresses me tells me that my fears are groundless. There is no comparison, because this is real.

And then he's kissing me, our tongues clashing furiously, as he strokes my arms, my chest, my stomach, my legs. Everywhere but where I need him to.

Finally, a whimper escapes me as he brushes his fingers along my inner thigh for what feels like the hundredth time. "Please," I beg, arching my hips up. I feel him smiling against me, and while he does bring his hand down, he pauses on my lower belly. "Please," I beg again. "Please touch me." I can't help but close my eyes as I feel his fingers, finally, for the first time.

He closes his eyes and moans, softly, "God, Katniss."

Suddenly his body is gone, and I open my eyes to see him all but tearing off the rest of his clothes. Without asking for permission, without even being all that gentle, he takes off my underwear and crashes his lips back into mine. "I can't wait," he croaks. "I won't last."

_Peeta is going to make love to me._

The thought is exhilarating. I give a small cry of joy and wrap my arms around his neck. I feel him position himself, and then pause.

"What?" I ask, breathlessly between kisses. "What is it?"

"I'm afraid I'll hurt you."

Oh, yes. Years of living with a healer has taught me something about how people's bodies work. I know there is something there – a piece of skin or tissue, I think – that tears. But I also heard that once that happens, it feels good.

Either way, I can't stand being on the precipice. My body is alive in a way it never has been before, the need I feel deeper, more primal.

_I need him. _

I pull his head down onto my neck, wrap my arms around him, and murmur, "It'll hurt worse if you don't."

His eyes meet my pleading ones. "Please," I beg.

And with one final kiss, he obliges.


	6. Release

It does, in fact, hurt. We both felt the resistance, but I wasn't prepared for the sharp pain that shot through me at all when he pushed through it.

Someone must have told him to lie still, not to move, because he doesn't retreat from me when I give my cry of pain, which is what I would have expected. He stays in me, and for a few minutes all I can feel is his ragged breath on my neck, the weight of his body, and the pain down below. Soon, though, the sharpness retreats and becomes more of an ache, and eventually it feels ok enough to relax a little. When I open my eyes, I see that his brow is creased with the expression he wears whenever I am in pain.

"I'm ok," I whisper, running a hand along his face. He presses his lips to my palm.

"I hurt you."

I hold his face in my hands, and press my lips to his creased forehead. I move to his nose, his cheeks, and place a gentle kiss on each eye. When he opens them to look at me, I stare deep into his blue eyes, and grin. "I think it'll be worth it." He smiles back. "Don't you?"

"Oh I think so," he answers. But he still doesn't move. He stays still on top of me, hands stroking my cheek, watching me. It occurs to me that perhaps it's my turn now, that there's something I am supposed to be doing, but don't know how, or what, to do.

"Am I doing this wrong?"

The question is out before I have time to censor it. Peeta laughs.

"What do you mean?"

"You're not moving, and I thought …"

"No, it's –" Even in the dark light, his blush is apparent. "I shouldn't, for a minute. I won't last. If I move now." He leans in to whisper in my ear. "You feel too fucking good."

His words shoot fire through me, partially because I could never have imagined them coming from Peeta's mouth. I arch my back against him as he sits back on his legs, keeping himself in me, but allowing enough space so he can see me wriggle. He brings his fingers back down to me, where I had begged him to touch me before.

If I thought his fingers felt good before, it's nothing – _nothing_ – to when they touch a certain spot. My eyes fly open and bore into his. The sensation makes me jump and buck my hips off the bed, and when he realizes that he's touched the right spot, he keeps on doing it. I can't seem to catch my breath and I am just staring at him, transfixed, unable to do anything but let pleasure ripple through me with each stroke of his fingers.

How stupid I was, to think that standing in front of him naked counted as exposed. Here, with him inside me, I am a whole new kind of vulnerable. He can see how every stroke of his fingers affects me, and feel me tremble uncontrollably.

My hands are gripping the sheets tightly. Peeta's watching my reactions carefully, and for a moment, it crosses my mind that he is ever a baker. That this is how he must have learned not to burn a loaf of bread when he baked for the first time. Watch it carefully. See how it reacts, how it transforms, and watch the signs for when it's done.

And maybe it's because Peeta knows me so well, that he can read my reactions so precisely. He knows when it's too much and when I need more. He seems to be able to read me and discover where to apply more pressure, or stroke faster. Before long, the only word I can form is his name, and soon even my ability to make sound disappears, leaving my lips to silently sound out his name.

When it happens – this explosion of feeling and pleasure that I never knew was possible or even existed – I am barely aware of the scream that leaves my throat. Wave after wave washes through me, and I can experience nothing else.

The world is pleasure, and sweat …

_… and him. _

And him. My boy with the bread. As I slowly return to myself, Peeta shifts his weight so he is back over me, closing the space between us. He thrusts, finally, between my legs, as he drops his head to my neck and moans.

"I love you, Katniss. God, I love you." The feeling returns to my arms enough for me to wrap them around him.

Peeta's movements become more urgent and rough, so unlike his usual careful and gentle self. I smile and pull him in closer, pressing my lips to his neck, his collar bones, his mouth …

"I love you, Peeta." I whisper against his lips, and then he's gone, giving a single, strangled cry, as he finds his release.


	7. The Light of Day

Dawn hasn't meant much to me since my father died. It became what was probably my loneliest time. When he was alive, we would hunt together, first in darkness, watching, listening, learning the forest and how it moved, how it breathed as it changed in the light of day. I knew how my father looked at each stage of sunrise, from the earliest tint of grey to full golden light. How each new level of brightness seemed to illuminate something else about him. His patience. His skill. His humor. But all of that is gone, now.

I do not let the light of day mean anything to me anymore. When dawn would break after he died, when I was alone in the woods - even when Gale was with me - it seemed all the sun did was illuminate my father's absence. Throw light on the emptiness he left inside of me. On how alone I was.

_Not today_.

Today, when I open my eyes to see sunlight streaming through the window, the first thing I'm aware of is how everything is suddenly, somehow, inexplicably different. It is inconceivable to me how I am still the same person yet not the same person. It must show, somehow. The contentment I feel radiating from me must be as visible and tangible as one of Cinna's own creations.

_Cinna's creations._

He has turned me into many things. An innocent girl. A dazzling victor.

_The girl on fire_.

But even that has changed. I smile, remembering the new fire I have discovered. One that does not burn and consume everything in its path, putting everyone I know and love in danger. I used to think that Peeta was my opposite – the peace to my anger, the one who reaches out to others while I escape into my solitude. Yet here was a fire that he, and he alone, could start.

_That would have been a neat trick in the training center._

My smile grows as I glance over at Peeta, sleeping peacefully with his mouth open slightly. I can't help but think how cute he looks.

My eyes rove about his face, drinking him in, enjoying this time I have to really study him without having to explain myself. His hair has fallen over his eyes, but I don't brush it away. Don't want to risk waking him.

Instead, I focus on learning things about Peeta's body – well, the part that I can see - that I never noticed before. I am again amazed at how long his eyelashes are, and that they never seem to get tangled. They move slightly as his eyes flutter in sleep.

His cheekbones are less prominent when he's well fed, but still high and beautiful. I have to catch myself to keep from brushing my fingers along them.

And his lips. They are surprisingly pink. I remember them, pale and drawn, burning with fever in the arena. So different from the way they burned last night. Even in the light of day, I shudder as I remember the feel of them on mine, on _me._ I imagine I am feeling them again, all over me –

_Down where he touched me. _

I cover my mouth to keep the squeak of surprise from leaving.

_I can't believe I just thought that. _

I'm sure people don't do that. I don't know what's wrong with me for even having the idea cross my mind. There must be something wrong with me. Because now that the thought has crossed my mind, I can't seem to _not_ think about it. About his mouth, on me. _There._ Maybe I am some sort of pervert.

The next sensation I'm aware of, despite – or maybe because of - my embarrassment, is a tingling sensation through my body, pooling between my thighs in a similar way it did last night. But now, knowing what pleasure lies in wait … the pleasure that Peeta can bring me, and _did_ bring me … this is something new. And thought it's better, it's more intense. Harder to ignore.

_And that was just with his fingers._

The moan that leaves my lips is uncontrollable. He stirs slightly in his sleep and I freeze, terrified that he heard me. But all he does is roll onto his back, one arm draped against his chest, the other down by his side. The blanket has shifted slightly, exposing his chest and most of his stomach. If the blanket were moved, even just a little bit …

It suddenly occurs to me that I never really _saw _Peeta last night – not in the same way I let him see me.

My eyes flit back to him, and I'm relieved to see he's still sleeping. It means he can't see the grin that has slowly started to spread across my face.


	8. Awake

I can't believe nakedness has no effect on my mother and Prim. Of course, they see naked men in a very different situation, and in a very different context. But despite my level of intimacy with Peeta, I cannot stop the blush that starts in my cheeks and seems to color my whole body.

It's like I'm seeing something scandalous, something I don't have any right to see, which, given the events of last night, seems a little ridiculous.

But after checking one or two dozen times to make sure he's still sleeping, my embarrassment slowly fades and curiosity begins to get the better of me.

He's relaxed and soft, but the muscles in his thighs and stomach are firm and defined. Even asleep, he is the physical embodiment of strength and warmth.

It's clear, now, why he's such a good wrestler. Strength, with control. I remember how it felt to have his arms around me in the cave; the sense of security that I hadn't felt in so long. Now, I can imagine a tighter grip, his legs wrapped around me -

_Stop. Control yourself._

Yes. This is just about looking, and learning. Studying new terrain. Yet I am unable to be my usual cold and detached self this morning, it seems. Not after last night. Just something else that's different this morning.

It's all because of Peeta, really. Even now, thinking back on the Katniss I was before last night … I think I was becoming her more and more with every moment I spent with him.

With Peeta.

Peeta, who means hope, and the promise that life can be good. My smile returns when I think that before last night, I never really knew what "good" even meant. I never really knew what "good" felt like, even.

And it felt good for him.

My eyes rake his body as I wonder if the surge of pride I feel is normal.

_I didn't even really do that much, come to think of it. _

The new pride deflates as quickly as it appeared as the realization hits me. It was my body that felt good on him, not anything in particular that I did. He was the one who touched me, who made me feel good.

He stirs again, and this time when he shifts, his legs part slightly. Not only is nothing hidden from my view, but it's a prime position for him to be in if I were to, well …

_… touch him. Make _him_ feel good._

The urge comes from somewhere deep inside, near where my desire burned. Propped up on my elbow now, about half way down the bed, I bite my lip as I continue to examine him. If I were to touch him, where would I start? I know next to nothing about the male anatomy, and was never able to stay with my mother and Prim long enough to learn. Not that I would learn anything that would help me here. But a little extra knowledge might have come in handy.

Now, here, with a man finally presented to me, I find myself fully and wholly unprepared.

My brow furrows in concentration as I take in his every angle and fold of skin, wondering if there is one place that is better to start at than the others. Several times I reach my hand forward only to stop it a few inches away from him and draw it back.

Should I ... _could_ I touch him while he's sleeping? Would being woken up this way be something good, like when I woke him up with a kiss last night? Or is touching him when he's asleep the same as doing it without his permission? Would he be angry?

The more I think about it, the more sure I am that touching something that way in their sleep would be some sort of gross violation. No. I won't touch him yet. But that doesn't mean I can't study a little bit. Then maybe I'll be better prepared when he's –

"Katniss?"

- awake.


	9. Come Back to Me

_Oh god. _

My first absurd instinct is to close my eyes and pray for the earth to open up and swallow me.

Even I know I'm being ridiculous. I can't help it. Embarrassment radiates in waves from my body. I am sure I am redder now than when I first saw Peeta naked. If I could glow, I probably would.

I can't see his face. As far as I can tell, he hasn't yet made any moves to cover himself. He's probably frozen in shock, as I am. Yet for all I know he may be immobilized with anger. I don't really know that side of Peeta. It's a side I've rarely seen; one that I've rarely triggered.

_This would do it, don't you think?_

Yes. Yes this would definitely be something worth getting angry over, if I were Peeta. I'm sure I've crossed some sort of line – violated something meant to be private, even from me.

By this point I am sure years have gone by, and all I've bee able to do is sit here and pray for something to make me disappear.

Suddenly, he speaks.

"You do know that even though your eyes are closed, I can still see you, right?"

His voice is the key, the noise to break my paralysis. "Oh god," I whisper.

And then I do absolutely the most childish thing possible. I literally dive for the covers and pull them up over my head until I am completely hidden from sight. The bed shakes with his laughter.

_Well, that's good_.

At least it means he's probably not mad. But how can I possibly face him now? How can I look him in the eye after … after where I was, and what I was doing?

"Katniss …" I can hear his smile through his voice, even as he sighs with a bit of exasperation. I don't answer him. I can't.

"You know you'll have to come out of there eventually," he says.

I shake my head for a few seconds until I realize he can't see me. "Nope," I manage. The word takes a few tries to get out.

My reply makes him laugh again.

"So you're just going to stay there, under the blankets, forever."

My only response is to drop my face into my hands on the bed and moan. Because he's right. I will have to come out eventually.

Finally, I adjust the blankets so I can see him with one eye.

He is lying in the same spot, and has made absolutely no effort to cover himself or even change his position. The only thing that's different is that he has propped his head up on one arm to see me better, and has rested the other on his chest. His legs remain as open as ever.

My eyes look anywhere but between them.

He watches me, his face unapologetically happy. He is clearly enjoying this.

I let the blanket fall away from my face enough to scowl at him. This only makes his smile grow wider.

"What?" I finally snap. I keep the covers wrapped around me, so only my head is visible.

"Hello," he says pleasantly. As if he walked up to me in the street. As if we were anywhere but here. I purposely deepen my scowl. He smiles, looks to the ceiling, and shakes his head.

"What!" I repeat again.

"You're just … you're kind of a funny person, Katniss. After … even after last night? This is still how you react? How you feel?"

He's not scolding me, but there's a hint of disappointment in his voice. I let the blanket drop a little more, so that while I am still wrapped in it, I am no longer hiding in it. Though it's still difficult to get words out, I am compelled to explain; to make him understand.

"You were sleeping."

"So?"

"So …" I have no idea how to put into words what I need him to understand – my curiosity, my embarrassment, or even the newfound sense of giddiness that has, since, vanished.

"So … I'm sorry."

His eyebrows go up. He looks sad. "What on earth for?"

"For looking at you. Without your permission."

There's a pause, and then his face breaks into a grin again. It's as though he can't help himself. I'm glad he's like that around me.

"I told you, I don't care if you see me naked. Awake, asleep … dying in the mud." He sits up and slides his hands under the blanket. I feel his fingers graze my waist as they eventually settle on my back. He pulls me into him, leaning back onto the pillow. "You, Katniss Everdeen," he says, "my love," he whispers, and chills run through me, "can see me naked any time."

I can't help but smile. But I still need to reassure him, to let him know that I regretted what I had been about to do. There's so little in our lives that we can control. I cannot violate the last piece he has left.

"I wouldn't have touched you," I assure him. "I know it looked like -" I shake my head. "But I would never … without your permission. Just so you know."

During the pause where Peeta takes in what I've said he must go through half a dozen different expressions before bursting into unabashed laughter. My scowling at him only seems to egg him on.

Something about his face, about the particular _way _he's laughing, calls to my memory. In an instant, I am transported back to the elevators the night of the opening ceremonies, with Chaff kissing me, Finnick's teasing, and Johanna's bare breasts reflecting the light off of Peeta's costume.

I know what he's thinking now.

"_I … am not … pure,"_ I practically growl at him, but this only makes him laugh harder. He throws his arms around me and pulls me into him, and is just so genuinely happy that I cannot help but be affected by it, despite my best efforts to remain angry. I feel my face break into a smile, and even though I try and hide it by burying my face in his chest, I know that Peeta can tell.

"Well fine!" I say, half smiling, half still trying to put on an air of annoyance. "So if you know so much, tell me."

He's still having trouble catching his breath.

"Tell - tell you what?" He manages to get out in between gasps.

"Tell me what's allowed. I assume that touching while sleeping is, in fact, ok, and I'm just the big idiot who didn't know any better?"

Peeta leans up and kisses me, his hand on the back of my head pulling me harder onto his lips. When he breaks it, he is still smiling.

"Yes," he whispers. "Yes, touching while sleeping is ok." He pauses. "I mean, I wouldn't go up to strangers and do it, or anything."

I poke him.

"But you can do anything you want to me, Katniss." He kisses me again. "Day or night, asleep or awake …" Another kiss. "I'm yours."

I languidly slide into his arms, pressing my cheek to his body. His arms wrap lovingly around me. Peeta's happiness has infected me. I feel it flowering in my chest, as if it's taken root in my heart and is now pumping through my veins until it reaches every part of me.

_Only Peeta could do that._

I lift my head to look at him, amazed at the person in front of me. Amazed at his understanding and patience. Amazed at his ability to touch and move me in ways I never knew myself to be capable of.

He presses his lips to mine again. Not urgently, not to ignite a new fire, but there's a definite firmness and passion to it. One hand finds my cheek.

For a long, long while, he simply looks at me. His thumb continues to graze my cheek softly as he holds the back of my head with his other hand. It's like he's trying to preserve me, to capture this moment in his memory forever.

"Hi," he whispers.

"Hi," I whisper back.

I don't look away. Not just because I owe it to Peeta to be as present as possible for what might be my last days alive, but because I don't want to. I want to stay there, lost in his limpid blue pools, forever immortalized by his loving gaze.

But even I can recognize that I'm not lost. If anything, I feel more found than perhaps I ever have been before.

So I look back, keeping our gaze unbroken, just existing in the world, with Peeta. I seem so spill over with happiness at the thought of it. It's as if I discovered some vital part of me that never existed before. One that I would be lost without.

And then, in the depths of his eyes, something shifts. There's something new there, something unexpected. If I had to put a word to it I would say… a sadness, almost.

"What is it?" I ask.

He doesn't answer for a few moments. Instead, with a pained expression, his eyes roam my face, as if he were bidden to memorize its every intricate detail. When he does respond, his voice is cracked.

"Have you ever wanted something … something that – that you never thought was possible?"

"Yes," I answer, thinking of my father. Of the many times I would have given anything in the world to see him again.

"Have you ever gotten it?"

I shake my head. Nothing could make that possible.

"Well I have. Here. Now. With you. And it's … " He searches for the words. "Part of it is exquisite, like happiness that – not only happiness that I never thought I _would_ feel, but happiness that I never thought I _could _feel." His hands find my face again. "Happiness that I didn't know was possible."

I smile, and duck my head down to brush his lips with mine. When I pull back, his eyes are closed, as if he's trying to preserve the feel of my lips on his.

"Any moment now I'm going to wake up and this will be gone."

I don't think I would have heard him if my face weren't so close to his. Even now I'm not 100% sure he was saying it to me, and not to himself.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it's happened before."

There's a pause as I digest what he said.

"…What?"

He bursts with exasperation. "Because that's what happens every time, Katniss!" I'll … I'll dream of this, or imagine this, and ..." He frowns. "Sometimes I'm stupid enough to lose myself in it."

His eyes find me again. They are sharp. Piercing. "And that's the worst thing to do. Because the next thing I know … I open my eyes to darkness. And I'm alone. And I'm ... I'm nothing to you. Again."

He seems to deflate in front of me, resignation and sadness filling his eyes before they close again.

What do I say to that? My life has been filled with moments that have been all too real. More than once I'd wish that it was a dream, and that any moment I'd wake up to find my father alive, my mother awake, or my sister with a full stomach.

I don't think I've ever had the opposite – what Peeta is talking about now. A moment so good, so wonderful, that I was sure it couldn't be real.

I have no words of my own. So I use Peeta's.

"Hey," I whisper, wrapping my arms around him, pulling him into me. "I'm here … I'm right here." His arms wrap around me, crushing me to him.

He holds me like he's drowning. Which he is, a little.

My head drops down and I continue, whispering softly in his ear. "Come back to me. I'm right here."

It's what Peeta says to me at night, when I'm thrashing and screaming at some horror that has visited me in sleep. At first, I'm not aware of anything but the terror that clutches my heart, but as the seconds pass, the first normal thing to register, without fail, is the sound of his voice.

"Come back to me," he whispers in the darkness. "I'm here. I'm right here. It's ok." Over and over he says it, holding my thrashing limbs against him until I am still. Until I'm back.

And so I throw him the same rope he throws me, trying my best to bring him back from whatever darkness is trying to take him. I keep whispering, slowly, gently, fingers stroking his hair. Occasionally, I'll place a kiss on his cheek, or his temples, or his lips.

Finally, he opens his eyes.

"See? I didn't go anywhere." When he doesn't respond, I press a little harder. "You were never nothing to me, Peeta. Even before."

He doesn't smile. He looks at me, as if trying to decide whether to ask me something. Finally, as if he can't stop himself, he carefully asks,

"You don't … regret it, do you?"

"Regret … what?"

"Last night."

It still takes me a few seconds to realize what he means. When I do, it's like ice in my veins.

"Why would you even think that?"

"Because … we're in a weird situation, and … sometimes people say things that maybe, in the light of day ... they regret saying."

I'm stunned as the realization hits me. He's not talking about making love. He's talking about me telling him that I love him.

My voice comes out harder than I expect it to. "No I don't _regret _it. I meant it. I mean it!."

He looks away from me, but I place a hand on his face and force his gaze to meet mine.

"Peeta. Listen to me. My only regret is that I didn't realize it sooner. That I didn't tell you more often. Every day. I've loved you since before I knew it."

My eyes are imploring, begging him to believe me. I try and pour every ounce of conviction and truth into them. "You, Peeta Mellark, are _my _love. And I love you."

His hands are gripping my face so tightly it almost hurts. Then he smiles ruefully.

"That's exactly what Dream Katniss would say, you know." But then his grin vanishes, and his expression sobers. "That would be worse than all the nightmares put together, I think. To finally have you, to _know_ that we're together, that you love me back, and that we … that we were – you know, _together_ like that … and then to have it taken away from me. To have them somehow … I don't know. Make you not love me." Lines of misery start to cross his face. "I don't think I could devise a worse torture."

His words break my heart. Not only because I want to reassure him that this is happening, that I, that this, that _we_, are real, that my love for him is real, but because the only way to really and truly prove my love to him is going to be so painful. I am going to die for Peeta. I am going to give my life so he can live.

In some distant, removed part of myself, I remember that Peeta would make an infinitely better spokesperson for any revolution than I could. But I am removed from that idea now. Whatever is happening in the outside world … we aren't a part of that. Not right now. Not in this moment. Now, we are just us. Two kids lucky and unlucky enough to have fallen in love, and to have loved each other, the day before going off to their deaths.

_Enough. Stop thinking like this. _

I can't let this happen, this slide into depression and fear. I have to do something to snap him out of it. To snap _us _out of it. Pain and fear and misery will come soon enough. It's not allowed here. Not now.

And with that thought, I am struck by a sudden impulse.

"Say Peeta," I begin, in what I hope is an innocent sounding voice. I lightly trace my fingers over his collar bones.

"Hmm?"

"Do you remember … when we were talking about things that are allowed and not allowed?"

"Like, five minutes ago?"

"Mmhmm," I murmur, still trying to keep a light and airy tone.

And then, without warning, I slide my hand under the blanket until my fingers find what they're looking for. They wrap around him, firmly.

He gives a sharp intake of breath and practically sits up in shock. He's pushed himself up nearly to seated on his hands, a look I've never seen before smoldering in his eyes. He's both surprised and daring me to go on at the same time.

"Well then you'll have to tell me," I continue as my hand moves on him. "Since you seem to know best … is this something I should go up to strangers and do?" I am trying to maintain my innocent tone, but I've started enjoying the effect I'm having on him too much to play for much longer.

The truth is, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. Instinct, more than anything, is guiding me now, though I try and watch Peeta's reactions carefully, like he watched mine.

And if I think of it that way, as cause and effect - a tighter grip bringing a deeper moan, faster movements bringing faster breathing – I actually seem to do well.

At first, I try and look sexy, whatever that means, but soon it becomes clear that it couldn't matter less to Peeta what sort of faces I might be making. All he cares about is that it's me.

Besides, he's closed his eyes and let his head drop back onto the pillow with a groan. He's panting more heavily, his mouth open. I pepper the line of his jaw with kisses, then move to his neck pressing more firmly onto his pulse point.

He reaches up and gasps my head with both hands, holding me steady as he stares, desperately, into my eyes. It looks almost as if he's in pain, the way his eyebrows furrow together. But the sounds he makes tell me otherwise.

"Katniss …" he breathes. I quicken my movements, almost daring him to try and form words. "God," he groans, letting his head fall back again.

I smile, enraptured by the new discovery I have made, thrilled with my ability to make him feel good.

_And that's only with my hand._

My heart quickens as I am filled with a sudden, reckless sense of abandonment and daring. I couldn't possibly … could I?

For the briefest of moments, I am filled with a fleeting panic.

_What if it's something that no person would ever do?_

It's certainly a risk. There's no way to answer my question from earlier. Maybe there just _is_ something wrong with me, to be thinking this. And I don't even know if that is something he'd like. The question is, do I trust Peeta enough to tell me if it's wrong? To _let _myself be that wrong with him?

But it's not a question. There is no question about that, because I trust Peeta with part of me that I've never trusted anyone with. It's more than trusting him with my life. It's trusting him with my body. It's trusting him with my heart.

And in the end, my desire – the desire to be there for Peeta in our last days, to bring him, as he put it, the happiness that he never thought possible – wins out.

He realizes what I am about to do a second before it happens, but by then it's too late. My head is already under the blankets, my lips having wrapped themselves around their prize.

The noise he makes might be an attempt at my name.

But I can't really tell.


End file.
